The morning finds us early in the saddle; four hours' westward progress brings us at noon to one of those rare oases of shadow in this bare land of sunshine. Here hunger, thirst, and weariness are again assuaged by food and drink and sleep. Sharp darts of brilliant, blinding sunshine burn through the leafy masses of the two fig-trees, and with almost malicious persistence pursue the would-be slumberer, who, to avoid this, must every now and then crawl after the receding shadows.
But we are not the only travelers who have sought midday shelter in this forest. On our approach we were greeted by a family group,—a man and woman with a little child, and a black slave. To our surprise the man addressed us in Spanish:—
"Buenos dias, Señor, habla usted Español?"
"Si, Señor, un poco," we reply, and then begins an interesting conversation.
"Where are your animals?" we ask.
"Stolen with all my goods, last night," he answers. "We must now go on foot to Fez to report our loss to the authorities."
We learn that our unfortunate friend is a maker of sausage cases, that he lives in Mequinez, and that he is hospitably inclined; for in return for our sympathy, he begs us to make use of his house in Mequinez, where another of his wives will welcome us and give us food and lodging.
OUR DUSKY CHARGE
This strange offer of hospitality, coupled with a something in the man's expression leads me to say, "But, Señor, you are not like a Moor."